I remember the day my mother cried in the mirror after her first mastectomy. The look in her eye, the awkward shuffle of her arms as she tried to blouse the soft white cotton tee that lay fallen flat against the left side of her chest. Her pain, so raw in those tears; we felt helpless, (is that the right word?) unable to fix her, to make her feel – whole again. By whole I mean complete, attractive, and in her estimation, somehow worthy of love. As if some missing collection of cells and tissues could determine whether my mother merited the everlasting affection of her husband and sons! As if the all-enveloping lifespring known as Mom could ever fall short on the scales of worthiness when it came to absolute adoration or wholehearted devotion – she, the timeless force defining God’s constructs in our world, declaring what is faith, what is family; the very meaning of life and love itself. But she felt broken.
So many of us know the cruel wages of cancer; the cost of the treatments on the body and mind, slowly claiming those things which come in pairs. Breasts, arms, lungs, it doesn’t stop until each piece is carved away, leaving scar tissue and a sense of damage for the survivor, worry for the family. What the cancer didn’t take, the chemo would consume. Suffering, it seems, is like that old cliche’ “it never rains, but it pours.” As we are overcome with emotion, overwhelmed at times from the difficult nature of simply getting by, I often feel something else. Something very much like hope, a sense that more is going on here than meets the eye. It seems to me, that in all this strife, the great creator, the molder and maker of this world, doles out only what each of us can handle; what we can bear.
Why me? We hear it over and over again. Lord knows, I’ve said it myself often enough.
The answer: Because you can take it, because life is the ultimate teacher, the most shameless, passionate, and cruelest lover of them all. The loss is never the point, but merely the punctuation. It’s the highlighting contrast revealing that wealth of extraordinary riches so often taken for granted. Thankfulness, gratitude, these turn to sorrow when the ones we love the most are gone. Sometimes I feel no better than the spoiled child screaming and flailing in the grocery store, wailing in fitful rage at the thought of what I can’t have, while I sit upon a vast mountain of invisible treasure, taken for granted. It gives me pause. How could I have been so blind to the gifts received, the years of love, support, laughter, hugs, and tears of pure, unbridled, joy? How greedy of me to want another moment of what others live entire lives, never to experience for even an instant.
Are pity and sadness truly part of the legacy that we wish to leave behind? Of course not. In thoughtful gratitude, I contemplate how fortunate I have been to have had such a wonderful mother. The gift it was and continues to be even long after her passing. In some small way, I keep her memory alive by living her values and manifesting those deeds that made my youth so very special. I pass it on, so to speak, giving her some agency still in this world that keeps on turning; a small legacy of kindness and thoughtfulness that she may not even have imagined. Why choose thankfulness over grief? Well, my reasoning is rather simple. I’ve never been able to feel both self pity and gratitude at the same time.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
Note. Originally published in the People Papers column, Literary Crumbs, December, 2023.
Literary Crumbs: Poems & Short Stories to Savor by D. Ryan Lafferty 